


In the Middle of Nowhere

by evening_spirit



Series: Unrelated Supernatural short stories [6]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-11
Updated: 2011-06-11
Packaged: 2017-10-20 08:16:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/210680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evening_spirit/pseuds/evening_spirit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Winchester thinks about his two sons, nearly half a year after Sam had left. Little he knows fate has a surprise for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Middle of Nowhere

**Disclaimer:**  SPN characters belong to Kripke and co.

***

 **In the Middle of Nowhere**

***

It’s been five months since Sam left and Dean is still like a stranger. Not like the boy John raised and taught everything he knew, and . . . And loved. Did Dean think John didn’t love him? Did Sam think that before he left?

Of course they did, still do. Each time John remembers that, all he can do is get out of the motel, sit in the Impala and drive, drive, drive, until the road is blurry and his chest feels like ripped apart by a werewolf.

They still hunt together, him and Dean. They still read each other’s thoughts, work like a team -- two bodies and one mind. Sam wasn’t included in hunting as much as Dean, firstly because he’d been too little, lately because he was not too eager. There were days when John would force him to work with them and then there were days when he’d just tell him to stay put, not open the door, not talk to anyone. And he would leave with Dean, alone together.

So no, it’s not what has changed.

When they are patching each other up after the hunt, or preparing for the next one, researching -- it doesn’t feel different either, even though Sam was always included in the research phase more than in the actual hunt.

But there are days -- few and far in between because John takes up any case come his way, too many perhaps -- but still there are days when they have nothing to do. Boredom makes John think . . .

Or the way they are on the road all the time now. They must have seen more towns in this past five months than they had in the last five years. They never argue about it. John says, “we go,” Dean packs up and they go. 

John takes off in the middle of the night, just to drive, drive, drive like this, he returns to the motel and he won’t face an enraged teenager. Instead he’ll meet a stranger who’ll ask, “you okay?” He’ll say, “yeah, I’m good,” and they won’t talk about it anymore.

Then, there were Christmas. John didn’t want Christmas, he never had, so he cooked up that hunt just for that time. They were battered and exhausted and when they returned home -- to the motel, where else -- on the evening of Christmas Day, Dean disappeared. Returned before midnight, a poor tree with some wretched decoration in his hand, a newspaper tucked in his jeans. He positioned the tree on the table took out the newspaper and handed it to John. Didn’t say a word -- he rarely did these days unless on the job. But his eyes were red-rimmed when John forgot for a moment and looked into them. He averted his sight quickly, focused on the wrapped up something. It was a scarf, a weird gift considering he never wore them.

“Thanks,” he said and Dean nodded. He looked like he expected something. Something else. Shrugged eventually turned around and went to bed not undressing himself even. 

It was a month ago. John stands at the bridge in the middle of nowhere and counts the differences between a month ago and six months ago. There aren’t too many, he convinces himself. Almost none in fact.

That’s when his phone rings and that might change everything. Or it might not.

It’s not the number John expects each time he hears the ring.

“Hello, mister John Winchester?” a tentative kid’s voice asks. It’s hard to determine if it’s a boy or a girl. “You don’t know me but I think you once knew my mother. Her name is Kate Milligan and my name is Adam.” The names mean nothing to John but maybe he helped them way back when? There were a few people along the line whom he told what he was doing. Some of them are calling back when new strangeness abides. It’s not what this boy wants though. After a moment of hesitation he takes a sharp intake of breath and lets the words fly on an exhale, “I think you are my father.”

John is stunned. Punched in the gut. Dazed. He talks to the boy, he asks questions, receives information and reacts. He’s in the car suddenly, driving like mad and the road ahead of him is sharp like a digital photograph and his body is whole and filled with something he doesn’t have the name for. Some emotion, bright and fresh.

He’s at the boy’s house by morning, the door opened by a sleepy woman with long blond hair looking so much like Mary that John wants to cry. She’s not Mary though; she’s Kate.

“I’m looking for Adam,” John chokes out. “I’m John, John Winchester, he called me last night.”

Kate’s eyes grow wide, she gasps then lets him in. She tries to say that Adam is asleep but Adam himself appears right then, behind her back. Large eyes, thin face. Admiration painted all over, the same he’d seen in Dean’s eyes so often after a hunt. After almost each hunt. Sometimes between the hunts too, like when Sammy had been little and gotten fever and John had given him medication that’d calmed him down.

John cries before he can contain himself. He hugs the boy, the stranger, like it is his salvation, like it’s Dean who’s twelve again and Sammy crammed together into this one, skinny body.

“Dad,” the boy whispers against his chest, word hot and damp. “Dad.”

***  
...


End file.
